


My Favorite Color is You

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Mild Smut, boys talking about their feelings, let's say summer after Adam's sophomore year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12088278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: “So…why are we here?”Ronan frowns harder, if that’s possible, and stares down at his menu. Glares down at it, actually, as if the descriptions ofsustainably-raised pork shoulderandthoughtfully-prepared duck breastare offensive to him. Which they probably are.“Appetizer?” he asks, in lieu of answering the question, and the sheer incredulity of it—Ronan Lynch in a fancy restaurant, asking him aboutappetizers—makes Adam want to laugh. “We can split the calamari.”“Sure,” Adam says slowly. He’s evidently in some kind of alternate universe. “We can split the calamari.”





	My Favorite Color is You

**Author's Note:**

> My first Adam/Ronan fic! I tore through the whole series and couldn't resist. :)
> 
> Title is from AJR's Sober, only because I like that line and the damn song was stuck in my head the entire time I was writing this.

Driving up to the Barns is Adam’s all-time favorite view.

It’s true all the time, but it’s even more true when Adam is coming back after being away at school. (Exponentially more true when it’s been seven weeks, not that he’s counting.) The colors are more saturated here, closer to what colors are supposed to be, and it seems to always be sunny when he comes home—he’s not sure if that’s a coincidence or not.

He hastily parks the car and hops up the stairs, but the door whips open before he even crosses the porch. His face automatically relaxes into a smile at the sight of Ronan, lounging and taking up all the space in the doorway, then his gaze drifts down. Ronan’s wearing nice gray slacks, a blue button-down, and a _tie_. He looks good, obviously, but it’s unusual enough that Adam pauses.

They have an unspoken tradition for nights that Adam comes home, and Ronan wearing nice clothes usually isn’t a part of it. Ronan wearing clothes at _all_ usually isn’t a part of it.

“Hi,” he says anyway, ignoring the clothes for the moment as he steps forward. Ronan wraps him up in a hug, blessedly familiar even after 51 days apart. His arms are tight, and Adam feels all his pieces snap together again, here on this porch. It doesn’t seem that Ronan will be letting go anytime soon, so Adam twists in his grip to press their lips together. It’s fierce but short, and Adam chases Ronan’s mouth when he pulls back. His eyes catch on the tie around Ronan’s neck, and he touches his collar. “So what’s going on with the whole…”

“We’re going out,” Ronan says abruptly. “You should change.”

“Going out,” Adam repeats. _Going out_ isn’t usually a thing that they do, especially dressed like that. Did he forget about some kind of event with Declan or something?

Ronan nods and releases Adam enough to usher him inside the house. “And hurry. We have a reservation.”

 _A reservation_ , Adam mouths as he climbs the stairs. His nicest shirt is in his dorm room, he thinks, but he’s able to scrounge up a decent enough outfit out of the closet in the bedroom, in which his clothes are thoroughly mixed with Ronan’s.

The drive is a little awkward, awkward like it hasn’t been since they first started dating, back when they weren’t really sure how to interact with each other under the guise of their redefined relationship. But Adam asks about Opal, and about the farm, as if they don’t talk at least twice a day already, and Ronan perks up a little.

They arrive at a restaurant that Adam’s never been to before, one at the edge of town that looks fancy and vaguely Italian. Ronan strides toward the front door of the restaurant, but Adam’s pace falters behind him as something occurs to him.

Ronan’s not…he can’t be _proposing_ , right? Sure, Adam loves Ronan practically more than life itself, and they do a mostly-successful job co-parenting a mostly-human child. He’s always assumed that some kind of official partnership thing was in their future—and based on the secret conversations they have in bed with the lights off, the ones they don’t repeat anywhere else, he knows Ronan feels the same—but he expected that future to be a little more…in the future. After Adam’s graduated from college, at least.

He tries to shove that thought from his mind and catches up to Ronan in the front waiting area, where he’s hissing _Lynch, 8:30_ at the poor hostess. She leads them to a table for two in the corner, complete with a white tablecloth and a goddamn candle. At least Ronan doesn’t try to pull his chair out or anything.

Ronan continues to give exactly zero indication as to why they’re here, and Adam clears his throat as he spreads his napkin across his lap. There’s a lot of silverware at his plate, which he doesn’t really know what to do with, but he figures he can push that problem off a little bit.

“So…why are we here?”

Ronan frowns harder, if that’s possible, and stares down at his menu. Glares down at it, actually, as if the descriptions of _sustainably-raised pork shoulder_ and _thoughtfully-prepared duck breast_ are offensive to him. Which they probably are.

“Appetizer?” he asks, in lieu of answering the question, and the sheer incredulity of it—Ronan Lynch in a fancy restaurant, asking him about _appetizers_ —makes Adam want to laugh. “We can split the calamari.”

“Sure,” Adam says slowly. He’s evidently in some kind of alternate universe. “We can split the calamari.”

“Great.”

Their drinks come, the calamari comes, but considering that Ronan is still refusing to say anything at all, Adam is no closer to figuring out what’s going on.                       

“Okay,” Adam tries. “Well, you’re clearly miserable, and therefore so am I, so—”

Ronan’s jaw clenches, and Adam finds himself momentarily distracted by the sharp planes of his face.

“C’mon.”

Ronan stands, dropping his napkin onto his plate, and Adam sighs. “Ronan,” he whispers. “We haven’t even ordered yet.”

He doesn’t answer, just yanks his wallet out of his back pocket and carelessly tosses a few bills down onto the table. Adam rolls his eyes at _that_ display, but Ronan is already stalking off toward the front door. He double-checks that there’s enough cash on the table to cover the little that they ate—of course there is, plus a hefty tip—and scrambles after him.

Ronan’s walking fast, taking advantage of the couple inches he has on Adam, and he spins around when they reach the car in the back corner of the parking lot. “I don’t want to do this!” he yells, and Adam’s heart catches in his throat. He swallows it down, and it burns.

“What?” he croaks.

Did Ronan dress up and take him out just to _break up with him_? Seriously? But Ronan’s face softens, uncharacteristically, and his hand darts out for just a second to touch Adam’s sleeve. “No, not…fuck, not _that_.”

Adam crosses his arms tightly across his chest, his nerves still pulled taut. “Then _what_? What the fuck is going on?”

“I just—” Ronan groans, his hand rubbing over his head, and looks like he’s about one minute away from actually kicking the tires of the BMW. “I don’t want to do _this_. I don’t want to wear fucking nice clothes, I don’t want to go to some random overpriced restaurant, and I don’t want to make fucking small talk with you while there are other assholes around.”

Adam is tremendously, hopelessly confused. “I…don’t want that, either?”

But that doesn’t seem to be the right answer because Ronan just sneers and scuffs the toe of his boot in the gravel. “Yeah, right.”

Adam throws up his hands in pure frustration. “What the hell is your problem?” he asks, his voice a lot louder than he would like. “What is going on, and why won’t you talk to me about it?”

“ _This_ ,” Ronan says, gesturing to the restaurant behind them, “is not what I want. I just wanna, like…go for a drive and shit and then fuck in the backseat of the BMW.”

“Then why aren’t we doing that right now?” Adam asks as he gestures to the car. He belatedly realizes that he’s still yelling, and Ronan stares at him for a second before bursting into laughter, the sharp barbs of noise puncturing the tension between them like a balloon. Adam’s shoulders relax as Ronan tangles their fingers together and leans forward for a kiss.

“Fantastic point,” Ronan murmurs against his mouth. “Come on.”

Adam heads directly for the backseat, thinking with his dick already—par for the course anytime that familiar sharp grin is directed toward him. Ronan steps pointedly toward the driver’s side door, though, and lifts an eyebrow at him. “Not _here_ , Parrish, jeez. You kinky fucker.”

Adam plops down into the passenger seat with a huff that’s a little too petulant for his tastes.

It doesn’t take Ronan long to find a dark, deserted road—Adam’s fairly sure that he’s cataloged the location of each one in their general vicinity—and it takes them even less time to scramble into the backseat.

Saying goodbye is awful, _being_ apart is awful, but this part is always the best. It’s as if all the tension built up from the 1233 hours they’ve spent apart gets released at once, blowing them back and forcing them to hang onto each other to survive the fallout.

Adam works his hands under Ronan’s shirt and tries to maneuver him onto his back. “You first.”

“No, _you_ first,” he snarls, and it’s so _Ronan_ that he lets him. He lets Ronan spread him out on the seat, lets Ronan harshly tug his pants down, lets Ronan suck him down with a greedy whine. And in turn, Ronan lets him clutch at his shoulders, his tie, anything; lets him arch up against the strength of Ronan’s grip.

It’s embarrassingly fast—two minutes, tops, _maybe_ three if Adam’s being generous—but it feels so fucking good that he doesn’t care.

He tries to return the favor, really, but Ronan climbs on top of him instead and takes Adam’s hand in his, moving it to his waistband. Adam tries to talk and unzip Ronan’s pants at the same time, but Ronan’s kisses are hard to multitask through. “You don’t want—”

“No, just your…” Ronan makes a noise and shakes his head. “Just your hand, fuck.”

The angle is awkward and there’s not really enough room, but Adam works with what he has and based on the punched-out noises Ronan’s making into his mouth, it’s working for him, too. He ends up making a mess of the shirt that Adam’s wearing, but he’s pretty sure that it belongs to Ronan, anyway.

* * *

It maybe speaks to their proclivities that they have a preferred post-coital position while in the car: Ronan slumped in the corner, his legs propped up on the center console and his feet dangling into the front seat, and Adam stretched out along the seat with his head in Ronan’s lap.

Adam fingers the edge of Ronan’s tie, which is now hanging onto Ronan’s neck by prayer alone. “You look better like this.”

“Debauched?” Ronan drawls, and Adam snorts.

“Yeah, exactly.”

They weren’t exactly patient throughout the undressing process, and Ronan’s shirt is shoved up to his chest, rumpled beyond belief. Adam’s shirt got unbuttoned, at least, his tie flung into the front seat, but his pants are mostly still on. He scratches at a sticky spot on his chest, quickly drying into something uncomfortable, and closes his eyes.

“When I came to visit you.”

Adam waits for the end of that sentence, but unsurprisingly, it doesn’t come. Ronan has this habit of muttering some random words and then assuming that Adam can just follow along and know exactly what he’s talking about. He usually can, thankfully, but right now he’s drawing a blank. He remembers when Ronan came to visit, of course—it was during spring break, the last time they saw each other—but he can’t recall anything particularly out of the ordinary that happened.

“What about when you visited me?”

Ronan’s sigh is impatient, and he stares out the window into the inky black of the night. “We—we saw that proposal, remember? It was all _flowery_ and shit, and gross, honestly, but you liked it.”

Ah. One night, when they managed to get _out_ of bed at a reasonable hour for dinner, they stumbled upon a proposal in the main quad. It was a whole ordeal, with flowers and family members and a band and a big crowd, and they watched for a minute, until Ronan’s scathing comments got a little too loud for polite company.

Adam smothers his grin in Ronan’s hip. “Is that what this whole thing was about? You think I want, like, more romance?”

“You said it was _cute_ ,” Ronan spits, accusingly, and Adam rolls his eyes as he twists to face Ronan better.

“It _was_ cute! I can think things are cute without wanting them. I think puppies are cute, but I don’t want one.”

“I’d get you a puppy,” he says mulishly.

Oh, god, Ronan’s going to dream up a puppy for Opal, isn’t he. Adam puts _that_ thought aside with a shake of his head.

“I know you would.” He traces over the cut of Ronan’s hip, feather light. “But I have everything I want right here.”

“It looks like you’re just talking to my dick.”

Adam shrugs. “Yeah, well.”

Ronan snorts, but there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He quickly resumes glaring out the window, looking like he’d rather have his teeth pulled than muddle through this conversation. “But you…if there was like, actually anything—you’d say something. Right?”

Adam’s Ronan-mind-reading skills are coming back just in time, and he heaves himself upright so he can swing a leg over Ronan’s and settle into his lap. Ronan’s hands come immediately to Adam’s thighs, squeezing, but he still isn’t meeting his gaze.

“I do not need—or want—dinners at fancy restaurants. I promise.”

“Even though that’s like, normal shit?”

“Ronan, our child has hooves. Normal isn’t exactly in our wheelhouse.”

Ronan sighs. “I just want you to have everything that you want,” he grits out, as if it pains him, in that uniquely Ronan way of making such a sweet sentiment sound so harsh.

“I _have_ everything I want. I promise.”

“Really?” he asks, sounding unusually doubtful, and Adam thumbs over the sharp cut of his cheekbone.

“Really. Though, I mean, another orgasm would be nice, I guess. If you’re offering.”

“You shithead,” he mutters, but he’s grinning as his grip on Adam’s thighs tightens even more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥ I'm [leslieknopeismyshiningstar](http://leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, I'd love to be friends!


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